


it's pie day, sammy

by hellbela



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe - High School, Angst, Dean is a closet nerd, Elements of Canon, Fluff, M/M, March 14, Oneshot, Pi Day, kind of
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-03-13
Updated: 2015-03-13
Packaged: 2018-03-17 16:31:44
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,394
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3536339
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hellbela/pseuds/hellbela
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>high school au for march 14 where dean is super enthusiastic about pi day and also really likes numbers</p><p>“You know what day it is, Sammy?” Dean crows, throwing an arm around his brother’s shoulder and tucking him into his side as Sam squirms, <em>let go of me, asshole,</em> but Dean doesn’t care. “It’s March 14th. It’s Pi Day, little brother.”</p>
            </blockquote>





	it's pie day, sammy

**Author's Note:**

> So I had this idea today for some reason and Topaz was like "WRITE IT" and so here we are...
> 
> Unbeta'd because I'm trying to make a deadline here, so apologies for any mistakes you see.

They’re in another school in another town in the middle of fucking nowhere, and Dean’s not even sure why he hasn’t yet scrapped the idea of education entirely. He’s seventeen, he’s smart, he can work a gun. But whenever he tries asking, pointing out that a finished school career isn’t the biggest fish in their frying pan, Dad’s face seems to crumple slightly, lines forming in his forehead and by his eyes like creases in unironed laundry. _Not yet, Dean, just wait._ Or more recently, _Wait for junior year to end, Dean. Then you can stop._ He’d looked pained when he said that, though, so Dean wasn’t sure to feel happy or… something. He hasn’t asked since.

Anyway.

It’s another school, another town, another morning where Sam bitches and silently worries over how many days they have left in this place, but today… is different.

It’s a Thursday.

_It’s March._

“You know what day it is, Sammy?” Dean crows, throwing an arm around his brother’s shoulder and tucking him into his side as Sam squirms, _let go of me, asshole_ , but Dean doesn’t care. “It’s March 14th. It’s Pi Day, little brother.”

The school they’re attending (visiting, more like) looms into view, and Dean catches the scent of freshly baked pastry and warm apples.

“Hell yeah,” he says.

Dean has always been fascinated with numbers. In a world where nothing makes sense, math and calculations have always been logical, grounding, an unchanging rock in the whirlwind of supernatural shit that is his life. It’s calming, mathematics, because Equation X will always solve the same way no matter whose mother burns on the ceiling, and ‘πr2= the circumference of a circle’ leaves no room for argument.

(When Dean was younger he’d count the notches in his pie crust, wonder if the amount ringing his slice was the same as the others and how many slices to a whole pie and the angle of his dessert. Once upon a time, he spent hours practicing his devil’s traps, ignoring his dad’s shouts of _hurry the hell up, Dean_ because the angles weren’t exactly the same. John had muttered something about therapists and OCD and Dean doesn’t measure his angles anymore.)

Dean doesn’t like to flaunt his intelligence. He knows he’s smart, or smarter than he leads people to think, but he prefers to keep a low profile because good grades mean expectations and expectations always lead to failure, one way or another. So he bullshits his assignments, ignores his teachers’ disapproving looks because he’s got enough on his plate, fuck you very much. But today is Pi Day, and this school celebrates.

  
‘It’s Pi day in the cafeteria! Recite pi to ten digits and win a free slice of apple pie!’

The crumpled flyer in his hand is slick with sweat, and Dean doesn’t let go.

…

When lunch rolls around, Dean’s late, and he curses Mr. Friedman as he runs down the halls. Fucker thinks Dean’s not working towards his full potential… like that’s any of his business. Doesn’t he know that’s Sam’s job? Dean would swear his teacher is a demon if he hadn't already checked ("Christo," Dean had whispered, but Mr. Friedman had only shot him a weird look) - he's not sure if he should feel relieved.

Skidding through the cafeteria doors, Dean slides to a stop and catches sight of the booth. His stomach plummets; he’s too late. The pie booth is shutting down, the _FREE PIE!_ banner askew and paper plates being put away -

One slice remains, and some kid in a ratty trench coat is reciting the last three required digits.

 _Fuck_ no.

Dean storms up to the counter, slams his hand down. “That’s my slice,” he grits out, entirely aware he’s being an asshole and not caring.

The boy turns to him, regards him cooly. “Well, seeing as I’ve said the digits of pi that permit my acceptance of this dessert, I would have to object. This piece of pie is under my possession.”

Dean’s anger suddenly gives way to confusion.

He’s considering dropping the argument, as this kid is obviously nuts, but the emptiness in his stomach is a reminder of why he shouldn’t - _(Don’t think of how there wasn’t enough cash for both of you to eat lunch today, how you gave yours to Sammy) (Don’t think of how much food can be provided for dinner tonight)_

Dean’s eyes narrow, and his next question is a snarl.

“How many digits do you know?”

The kid blinks.

“Excuse me?”

 _“How many digits-“_ Dean speaks slowly, aware of the crowd they’re gathering- “of pi, do you know?”

“A lot,” Trench Coat says unhelpfully.

“Okay…” Dean doesn’t know what to do with that response, so he plows on. “I challenge you to say, uh… a hundred digits of pi. You get to a hundred digits, you can keep the pie. If I get to a hundred, it’s mine. Deal?” He holds his hand out to shake.

Trench Coat eyes him for an uncomfortable amount of time, and Dean feels like a specimen under a microscope, pinned by his gaze; Dean refuses to let his stare waver, though, silently daring this kid to accept. A smirk plays at the corners of Trench Coat’s lips, and Dean fights down the insane urge to blush or look away.

“All right,” he says, accepting Dean’s grip, still smirking. “You first.”

Dean nods; with his reputation, he should have expected that. He breaks eye contact, inhales, ignores the snickers from across the room. When he looks up, his smile is predatory.

“Three point one four,” he starts, “one five nine…”

He closes his eyes, lets the knowledge he’s repressed seep back into his bones, and recites. Distantly, he’s aware of a gradual hush falling over the cafeteria, imagines he hears Sam call out, “Keep going, Dean!”, but he focuses, counts numbers like calories he doesn’t have, blocks out everything else. He stutters at digit fifty-three and his eyes flutter open to catch Trench Coat staring at him in surprise. Frantic whispers start up, and he loses track - “three,” he recalls, and continues, new determination speeding up his words.

Finally -

“Seven oh six seven nine,” he finishes, meeting Trench Coat’s electric gaze.

The cafeteria is silent.

Trench Coat looks a little shocked, brows flying off his forehead, but Dean feels less smug than he does... vulnerable; his expression is less incredulity than realization. There's this _look_ in Trench Coat's eyes, like he sees something new in Dean, something more than him being smarter than he looks - like he knows this is about more than the pie. Dean doesn't like it.

A deal's a deal, though, and after a moment of contemplation, Trench Coat starts.

Dean’s heart sinks. Trench Coat’s digits are said confidently at a steady pace, and he doesn’t seem to be stopping anytime soon. Absently, Dean counts Trench Coat’s numbers, hope plummeting with every new one spoken.

Dean’s not going to win.

It’s not really that big a deal. He’s gone plenty of meals unfed; it doesn’t really matter, he supposes. He’ll find something, and as long as Sammy’s eaten -

 _96, 97, 98,_ Trench Coat’s still reciting.

_99 -_

He stops.

Dean blinks at him, but Trench Coat doesn’t look like he’s going to continue. The gaze he meets Dean’s with is - serene. Dean clears his throat.

“That was only - aren’t you going to finish?” He croaks.

Trench Coat tilts his head to the side and _fuck_ if that’s not adorable. “I thought it would be clear that I have,” he says, sounding puzzled, though he’s smiling slightly as he presents the pie to Dean. “This is yours, I believe.”

Dean accepts the plate and suddenly he can breathe. Shit, it's been so long since he's experienced kindness from someone who knows what it _means,_ and he feels lighter than he has in years. It's _fantastic_ , and Dean must still be in shock because he stops from where he's been turning away from the kid and -

“Do you want some pie?” he blurts, and Trench Coat’s eyes widen. “I mean, you don’t have to, but if you want a bite, I wouldn’t mind, uh - I’m Dean,” he says, suddenly realizing he doesn’t even know the kid’s name. _Smooth, Winchester._

The boy, however, smiles.

“Castiel,” he supplies, and his eyes are warm. “And yes, I would love some.”

**Author's Note:**

> *This fic is set in 1996 when Dean is 17, and Pi Day did fall on a Thursday that year (in case you were curious about my choice of weekday).
> 
> *Whether or not Cas is human is left ambiguous... interpret that as you wish. I personally enjoy the idea of an angel internship.
> 
> Feel free to tell me what you thought of this piece! Thanks for reading.


End file.
